Charlie Codmans Cruise 3

Charlie Codmans Cruise 3

Peter went to the window and put his head out, hoping to discover

something of his troublesome visitor. The noise of opening the window

attracted his attention.

 

"Hilloa!" he shouted. "I thought I'd make you hear some time or other.

I began to think you were as deaf as a post, or else had kicked the

bucket."

 

"Who's there?" asked Peter, in a quavering voice.

 

"Who's there! Come down and see, and don't leave a fellow to hammer

away all night at your old rat-trap. Come down, and open the door."

 

"This ain't the house," said Peter. "You've made a mistake. Nobody ever

comes here."

 

"No more I should think they would, if you always keep 'em waiting as

long as you have me. Come along down, and let me in."

 

"But I tell you," persisted Peter, who didn't at all like the visitor's

manners, "that you've made a mistake. This ain't the house."

 

"Ain't what house, I'd like to know?"

 

"It ain't the house you think it is," said the old man, a little

puzzled by this question.

 

"And what house do I think it is? Tell me that, you old----"

 

Probably the sentence would have been finished in a manner

uncomplimentary to Peter, but perhaps, from motives of policy, the

stranger suppressed what he had intended to say.

 

"I don't know," returned Peter, at a loss for a reply, "but there's a

mistake somewhere. Nobody comes to see me."

 

"I shouldn't think they would," muttered the outsider, "but every rule

has its exceptions, and somebody's come to see you now."

 

"You've mistaken the person."

 

"No, I haven't. Little chance of making a mistake. You're old Peter

Manson."

 

"He _has_ come to see me," thought Peter, uneasily; "but it cannot be

for any good end. I won't let him in; no, I won't let him in."

 

"Well what are you going to do about it?" asked his would-be visitor,

impatiently.

 

"It's too late to see you to-night."

 

"Fiddlestick!" retorted the other. "It isn't eight yet."

 

"I'm just going to bed," added Peter, becoming momentarily more uneasy

at the man's obstinacy.

 

"Going to bed at half past seven! Come, now, that's all a joke. You

don't take me for a fool!"

 

"But I am," urged Peter, "I always do. I'm very poor, and can't afford

to keep a fire and light going all the evening."

 

"You poor! Well, may be you are. But that ain't neither here nor there.

I have got some important business to see you about, and you must let

me in."

 

"Come to-morrow."

 

"It's no use; I must see you to-night. So just come down and let me in,

or it'll be the worse for you."

 

"What a dreadful ruffian!" groaned Peter; "I wish the watch would come

along, but it never does when it's wanted. Go away, good man," he said,

in a wheedling tone. "Go away, and come again to-morrow."

 

"I tell you I won't go away. I must see you to-night."

 

Convinced that the man was not to be denied, Peter, groaning with fear,

went down, and reluctantly drawing the bolt, admitted the visitor.

 

 

 

 

III.

 

THE UNWELCOME VISITOR.

 

 

Opening the door with trembling hand Peter Manson saw before him a

stout man of forty-five, with a complexion bronzed by exposure to the

elements.

 

Short and thick-set, with a half-defiant __EXPRESSION__, as if, to use a

common phrase, he "feared neither man nor devil," a glance at him

served hardly to reassure the apprehensive old man.

 

The stranger was attired in a suit of coarse clothing, and appeared to

possess little education or refinement. He might be a sailor,--there

was an indefinable something about him,--a certain air of the sea, that

justified the suspicion that he had passed some part of his life, at

least, in the realms of Father Neptune.

 

Peter Manson, holding in his hand the fragment of candle which

flickered wildly from the sudden gust of wind which rushed in at the

door just opened, stood in silent apprehension, gazing uneasily at his

unwelcome visitor.

 

"Well, shipmate," said the latter, impatiently, "how long are you going

to stand staring at me? It makes me feel bashful, not to speak of its

not being over and above civil."

 

"What do you want?" inquired Peter, his alarm a little increased by

this speech, making, at the same time, a motion as if to close the

door.

 

"First and foremost, I should like to be invited in somewhere, where

it isn't quite so public as at the street door. My business is of a

private nature."

 

"I don't know you," said the miser, uneasily.

 

"Well, what's the odds if I know you?" was the careless reply. "Come,

push ahead. Where do you live? Up stairs, or down stairs? I want to

have a little private talk with you somewhere."

 

The speaker was about to cross the threshold when Peter stepped in

front, as if to intercept him, and said, hurriedly, "Don't come in

to-night; to-morrow will do just as well."

 

"By your leave," said the visitor, coolly, pushing his way in, in spite

of the old man's feeble opposition. "I have already told you that I

wanted to see you to-night. Didn't you hear me?"

 

"Thieves!" the old man half ejaculated, but was checked by the other

somewhat sternly.

 

"No, old man, I am not a thief; but if you don't have done with your

stupid charges, I may be tempted to verify your good opinion by trying

my hand at a little robbery. Now lead the way to your den, wherever it

is, if you know what is best for yourself."

 

The outer door was already closed, and Peter felt that he was at the

intruder's mercy. Nevertheless, there was something in this last

speech, rough and imperative as it was, that gave him a little feeling

of security, so far as he had been led to suspect any designs on his

property on the part of his companion.

 

Without venturing upon any further remonstrance, which, it was clear,

would prove altogether useless, he shuffled up stairs, in obedience to

the stranger's command, yet not without casting back over his shoulder

a look of apprehension, as if he feared an attack from behind.

 

His visitor, perceiving this, smiled, as if amused at old Peter's

evident alarm.

 

Arrived at the head of the stairs, Peter opened the door into the

apartment appropriated to his own use.

 

The stranger followed him in, and after a leisurely glance about the

room, seated himself with some caution in a chair, which did not look

very secure.

 

Peter placed the flickering candle upon the mantel-piece, and seated

himself.

 

It was long, very long, since a visitor had wakened the echoes of the

old house; very long since any human being, save Peter himself, had

been seated in that room. The old man could not help feeling it to be a

strange thing, so unaccustomed was he to the sight of any other human

face there.

 

"It seems to me," said his visitor, dryly, taking in at a glance all

the appointments of the room, "that you don't care much about the

luxuries of life."

 

"I," said Peter, "I'm obliged to live very plain,--very plain,

indeed,--because I am so poor."

 

"Poor or not," said the visitor, "you must afford to have a better fire

while I am here. I don't approve of freezing."

 

He rose without ceremony, and taking half a dozen sticks from the

hearth, deposited them in the stove, which now contained only some

burning embers.

 

"Stay," said Peter, hastily. "Don't put so much on; it's wasteful, and

I sha'n't have any left for to-morrow."

 

"I'll risk that," said the other, carelessly. "At any rate, it's better

to be comfortable one day than to shiver through two."

 

The flame caught the wood, which soon blazed up, diffusing an unusually

cheerful glow over the apartment. Peter, in spite of the dismay with

which he had at first contemplated the sudden movement on the part

of his visitor, and the awful consumption of wood which he knew must

ensue, nevertheless appeared to enjoy the increased heat. He drew his

chair nearer the stove, and an __EXPRESSION__ of satisfaction was visible

in his face as he spread out both hands to catch a little warmth.